Wrong

Wrong
a thin seam in the fabric of thought,
where certainty frays and the mind stumbles,
like a traveller who takes the left‑hand turn
when the signpost points straight ahead.

It is the colour of a misplaced comma,
the hush after a mis‑sung note in a choir,
the quiet admission that the map we drew
does not match the territory we walk.

To be wrong is not a flaw but a fissure,
a crack through which new light can seep,
a reminder that our knowledge is provisional,
our convictions mutable as British weather.

So let us wear our errors like a well‑worn coat,
buttoned loosely, ready to be reshown,
for in the space between right and wrong
lies the restless pulse of learning.